


Wait For It

by moonstone1520



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Related, F/M, Mentions of Suicidal Thoughts, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-12 23:15:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5684950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonstone1520/pseuds/moonstone1520
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life. Death. Love.<br/>They don't discriminate between the sinners and the saints.<br/>Whatever he was going through, whatever the reasons, John Watson would have to wait for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wait For It

**Author's Note:**

> I have been obsessively listening to the Broadway musical "Hamilton" and trying like the devil to score tickets because it's so freaking amazing. The amount of prompts alone I have going on right now from that show is staggering. This one is inspired by the song "Wait For It". 
> 
> I do not own the lyrics to "Wait For It"--those are entirely the property of Lin-Manuel Miranda. Also, I do not own the character's of BBC's Sherlock, I just like to play with them every once in a while.
> 
> Set entirely from John's POV.

**Life doesn’t discriminate, between the sinners and the saints—it takes and it takes and it takes and it takes. And we keep living anyways, we rise and we fall and we break and we make our mistakes. And if there’s a reason I’m still alive when everyone around me has died, I’m willing to wait for it. I’m willing to wait for it.**

**—Hamilton, “Wait For It”**

_~_

_The war in Afghanistan had brought honours and promotions to many, but for me it had brought nothing but misfortune and disaster—_

John Watson exhaled angrily and deleted the sentence he just typed. He ran his hands through his hair and glared at the computer screen. “Sounds like I’m writing a bloody memoir,” he grumbled. He tapped his fingers on the keys, before pushing his chair back and pulling himself up. He grabbed his cane and limped to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water in a feeble attempt to combat the hangover he accumulated from the pub last night. _Still downing pints like they’re in their twenties,_ he thought, not without envy. The gents from Blackheath still hit the pub hard—they hadn’t had to curb their intake for boot camp and combat like John had.

He sipped at his water as he hobbled back to the computer and sat down, heavily. He scrolled through the few posts on his blog, wondering for the thousandth time why he bothered to keep up one, why he followed his therapist’s suggestion. _Nothing interesting ever happens to me_ , he thought drearily. His eyes brushed over the drawer under his right hand. His left hand twitched minutely, unconsciously. He knew what lay in the drawer, in the dark. He thought about using it at least once a day, even if he immediately banished to the back of his brain the second it entered his consciousness.

But John was tired of the dreams. He was tired of waking up in a cold sweat, his entire body tense and ready for combat. He hated that we was terrified to sleep, so he slept little anymore. He hated how the dreams made him bolt for the bathroom and vomit, so he no longer ate a great deal. The apple he had every intention of eating for breakfast this morning lay forgotten on the kitchen counter. He was tired of the well-meaning comments from the few friends he hadn’t pushed away, and from Harry.

He snorted at the thought of Harry. Harry, who could barely take care of herself when she was sober (which, God knows, wasn’t often), wanted to take care of him, a soldier suffering from PSTD. As much as he appreciated his older sister’s intentions, there was no way in hell he was going to go to Harry for help. Not now, not with the mess with Clara still having to be cleaned up, not with Harry back in the bottom of all the bottles she could get her hands on. No, John would deal with his problems on his own, thank you very much.

 _Yes, you’re dealing with them just splendidly old boy_ , a nasty voice in the back of his head whispered. _Not eating, not sleeping and thinking all the time of the gun in your desk_.

John shook his head to rid himself of the whispers.

He closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, thinking of the mantra he’d utilized after being discharged to deal with civilian life again: _There has to be a reason I didn’t die over there. There has to be._

_I just have to wait for it._

Three days later, John Watson met Sherlock Holmes.

~

**Death doesn’t discriminate, between the sinners and the saints—it takes and it takes and it takes and it takes. And we keep living anyways, we rise and we fall and we break and we make our mistakes. And if there’s a reason I’m still alive when everyone who loves me has died, I’m willing to wait for it. I’m willing to wait for it.**

**—Hamilton, “Wait For It”**

He didn’t want to go to the cemetery. He didn’t want to see the grave or the headstone, he didn’t want to be reminded of what he’d lost. He didn’t want it to be real, not yet. He wasn’t quite ready for it to be real. But Mrs. Hudson had insisted, said he needed “closure.” He ignored the references she made to her belief that he and Sherlock were a couple—let her think what she wanted. He didn’t care anymore.

He’d lost his best friend. What did he care about anything anymore?

He’d stopped eating in the days since Sherlock’s death. The nightmares had come back with a vengeance and John’s glance began to hover over his gun again… and not in the way it did when Sherlock was on a case.

His gaze on the gun began to hover the way it did a year ago, before Sherlock Holmes had come barreling into his life.

He shook himself out of his reverie and focused his gaze on his blog. John squared his shoulders and hovered his fingers over the keyboard. His resolve strengthened as he thought of all his friend had done to help John keep going in the dark days of returning from combat. The least he could do is continue to keep going, to keep his friend’s memory alive.

_He was my best friend and I’ll always believe in him._

John posted his blog entry and exhaled. He picked up his mobile and dialed a number, holding the phone to his ear as he heard it ring on the other end.

“Yes, I’d like to make an appointment? What? Oh, yes, um, Ella Thompson. We—that is—I’m a patient. John Watson. Yes. Yes, Tuesday? Right. Yes, right, great. Great, thank you.”

He hung up and placed his phone back on the desk. Sherlock had a zest for life. The least John could do was honor Sherlock’s memory by believing in him and continuing his own life.

_There has to be a reason for all of this. There has to be a reason for me to keep going._

_And if there is, by God, I’ll wait for it._

Two weeks later, John Watson met Mary Morstan.

~

**Love doesn’t discriminate, between the sinners and the saints—it takes and it takes and it takes and it takes. And we keep loving anyways, we laugh and we cry and we break and we make our mistakes. And if there’s a reason I’m by her side when so many have tried, I’m willing to wait for it. I’m willing to wait for it.**

**—Hamilton, “Wait For It”**

She was perfect for him, and everyone knew it.

Even Sherlock had approved when he reappeared in the land of the living, the prick.

She made him laugh, put him in his place, and got on well with Sherlock—an accomplishment very few of his previous paramours had been able to achieve. He’d thought that Mary was one of the best things that could have happened to him—an assessment even Sherlock agreed with in his own way:

“Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable.”

John didn’t think he could be happier than on his wedding day when he both married one of his best friends and found out he was going to be a father—unconventional as both the timing and the method of finding out was (“Sorry, that was one more deduction than I was really expecting.”).

But right now, John wondered how he could have fallen for the woman who killed his best friend.

Granted, said best friend was currently in hospital recovering from internal bleeding due to the tearing of stitches from a gunshot wound, but if the berk absconded again, John was _literally_ going to kill him this time.

He sat in the empty flat at 221B. The quiet unnerved him, but he couldn’t go home. Not just yet, at least. His fingered the flash drive on the table next to him. He slouched further into his chair, bringing his fist up to rest against his chin. He tempered his rage as he thought again of how his wife had deceived them all—even Sherlock had been taken in by her. He left the flash drive and cradled his head in his hands as he remembered that his estranged wife, the woman he chose, as Sherlock reminded him, was carrying his child.

He had a child to think about now.

It wasn’t just about his feelings regarding Mary and her life before him. It was about the three of them now. Like it or not, she was going to be in his life regardless of how he proceeded because there was no way in hell that he would ever be separated from his child.

He brought his hands down to rest at his mouth. Maybe that’s just how he had to think about it; Mary’s life before he entered it was just that: Mary’s life _before_. His life before her, his paramours before her weren’t her business, nor did they matter—they were in his past and they were going to stay there. Perhaps that’s how he had to reconcile his future with his wife—her mistakes in her past were just that: _in her past_. If someone or something from her past was going to threaten one, both or all three of them (God, he needed to get used to saying that: _the three of them_ ), perhaps that’s when he needed to know about her past. Perhaps her past, like his, _like everyone’s_ , was strictly a need-to-know basis.

He fell in love with Mary because she was smart, witty, and took him as he was, flaws and all. Maybe that’s what he needed to do. Accept her for who she is. Because like it or not, this part of her is who she is, even if she isn’t active anymore, even if she’s running away from that part of her life.

_I may have chosen her, but she chose me too._

He turned and picked up the flash drive. He stared at the initials A.G.R.A. He was still angry at Mary, and would be for quite a long time.

He stood, shrugged on his jacket and pocketed the flash drive. Christmas was coming—the trip to the cottage in the country was imminent. Per Sherlock’s request— _more like command, the cock_ —both he and Mary would be in attendance at the Holmes’ family cottage for the holiday. John decided to approach Mary then. Until then, he’d deal with his feelings regarding the revelations about her past. No good bottling them up until he exploded.

Whatever Mary was, she was his. Whatever came their way regarding their past, they would wait for it together.

And that, in John Watson’s opinion, was all that mattered.


End file.
